Angela of the Stones Read online

  ©Amanda Hale, 2018

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.

  Thistledown Press Ltd.

  410 2nd Avenue North

  Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, S7K 2C3

  www.thistledownpress.com

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Hale, Amanda, author

  Angela of the stones / Amanda Hale.

  Short stories.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-77187-165-5 (softcover).–ISBN 978-1-77187-166-2 (HTML).– ISBN 978-1-77187-167-9 (PDF)

  I. Title.

  PS8565.A4313A64 2018 C813'.6 C2018-904563-9

  C2018-904564-7

  Cover and book design by Jackie Forrie

  Printed and bound in Canada

  Author photo by Kim June Johnson

  Thistledown Press gratefully acknowledges the financial assistance of the Canada Council for the Arts, the Saskatchewan Arts Board, and the Government of Canada for its publishing program.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Most of my research for these stories has been done on the streets of Baracoa, and a portion on Calle Ocho, the Little Havana neighborhood of Miami. Thanks to all the generous Cuban friends who have responded to my questions, discussing with me over kitchen tables and on park benches, the extraordinary and unique country in which you live. This is your book; you are the source and inspiration, I am merely the scribe.

  Thank you to Thistledown Press for your ongoing loyalty to my writing; and to Seán Virgo, for your brilliant and exacting editorial guidance.

  Gracias to ‘my man in Havana,’ Tomás Aquilino López Sánchez, who is always ready to respond to my e-mail queries; and to Manuel García Verdecia, my friend and translator.

  to the people of Baracoa who have so generously shared with me their memories, dreams and reflections during many years of friendship

  CONTENTS

  La Huelga

  Ángela de las Piedras

  I, Gertrudis

  A Limited Engagement

  Daniela’s Condition

  Berto’s Kidney

  Homecoming

  The Piano-Tuner from Guantánamo

  The Unwelcome Guest

  La Ultima Paella

  Miami Herald

  Nando and Erminda

  Godofredo

  Fidel’s Silence

  Another World

  Firefly Park

  ‘Ah, the power of silence,’ the painter says, leaning back.

  ‘What is he thinking?’

  ‘Perhaps he’s remembering all the words he’s said for all these years. He’s earned his silence,’ the peanut vendor says.

  And in the silence that follows, as Romero ponders his friend’s reply, Godo imagines Fidel lying in an old man’s bed, narrow, monkish, raising a trembling finger as he opens his mouth to speak.

  LA HUELGA

  A church has stood in the centre of Baracoa for more than five hundred years. When the Spanish anchored off the shores of Playa Caribe in late November of 1492, they marveled at the beauty of a Taíno Indian village clasped by a fist of rivers flowing from densely treed mountains to the confluence of Atlantic and Caribbean oceans. They saw the long tabletop mountain of El Yunque emerging from the jungle in the distance, haloed by a puff of cloud reflected in the calm waters surrounding them. Captain Cristóbal Colón first imprinted with his own bare foot the damp white sands of the bay, then he planted a wooden cross there, plunging it deep as he named the bay Porto Santo. He wrote later in his ship’s logbook that it was ‘the most beautiful place in the world with its fresh breezes and crystal clear water . . . I hear the birds singing that they will never ever leave this place.’

  Aurelia gazes up at the newly renovated church. La Catedral de Nuestra Señora de la Asunción had become a crumbling white bone until the recent two years of restorations, with carpenters, painters and stonemasons crawling all over the structure, hammering and chiselling, shouting back and forth, singing as they worked. Now it stands empty, the new concrete bell towers freshly painted for el Quinto Centenario de Baracoa, la Ciudad Primada. A full moon of a clock has been donated by the Italian city of Bergamo, and when it tolls the hour all the citizens of Baracoa, wherever they happen to be, are reminded of the beating heart of their church, so long under renovation.

  ‘And all for nothing,’ Aurelia sighs, because Padre Luigi has been sent away.

  When she first saw him, loping down the side aisle of the church, his long hair flying, his slight body draped in a white cassock, Aurelia had been reminded of the picture in her Bible that showed Jesus Christ with his disciples at the miracle of the loaves and fishes. Padre Luigi could have been any one of them but, with his bright eyes and beaked nose, he especially resembled Christ. She would see him on the street, striding along, though never in a hurry, always taking time to stop and talk, his head to one side as he fingered his beard with quick nervous gestures. He seemed to Aurelia a walking contradiction — a man in perpetual motion even when he stood still, energy crackling around him as he listened patiently, his deep-set eyes brimming with compassion.

  Padre Mauricio, who has been sent from Guantánamo to replace Luigi, stands at the open door of the church watching a few sad souls slouched on the benches in Parque Central, hugging the shade as the sun swirls blindly towards its mid-day zenith. The streets are empty. The church is empty. It reminds him of the dark days when Church properties had been nationalized and the faithful forced underground. So broad had been the 1960s sweep that even the Jesuit school where the Castro brothers had attended was closed, forcing the priests to pack up and move to Miami. Mauricio scans the street again, frowns and runs a broad hand over his shining pate as he checks his watch — nine-fifteen. He turns on his heel, walks up the aisle and kneels stiffly to pray for continence. But his anger will not be quelled. When he hears a click behind him and turns to see a tourist with her camera pointed at the new stained-glass windows above the altar, he shouts, ‘¡La iglesia está cerrada!’ and, rising painfully, he shuffles out the side door to the refuge of his new lodgings in the Casa Paroquial.

  On his last night in Baracoa Padre Luigi had hosted an evening of music for the youth of his parish. Los Huracanes, a local band, played old favourites from the sixties — “A Whiter Shade of Pale,” and “Stand by Me.” People had lined up to recite poems they’d written for Luigi, to thank him and bid him farewell. The parish house had been packed to the rafters and Aurelia had been there too, mixing in with the young ones. In all those years she had never spoken directly with the padre. She was a shy woman who stood on the sidelines, but this night she knew was her last chance, and even though she felt unworthy, Aurelia found herself swept forward with a throng of boys and girls clamoring to bid Luigi a personal farewell. She stared at him as though she might capture him in her mind forever. So concentrated was her gaze that when she found herself face to face with him she could hardly believe it, and she blurted out her question without thinking — ‘Where are you going?’ She’d heard a rumour that he was being sent to the church of Caridad del Cobre near Santiago de Cuba. At least he’ll still be in Cuba, she’d thought, only five hours away.

  ‘Back to Italy, to my birthplace,’ he said sadly. ‘Bergamo.’

  Aurelia’s face must have spoken all that she felt, because Padre Luigi embraced
her and for a moment their two hearts reached for each other, beating from inside their bony cages. When he pulled back she saw the tears she’d felt when her cheek had pressed against his.

  Sundays in Baracoa are distinct from all the other days. Shops are closed, people sleep late, even the peanut vendor doesn’t hit the streets until afternoon. The faithful congregate in their various churches — Catholic, Baptist, Pentecostal, Seventh Day Adventist — then the women go home to their laundry and house-cleaning, to cook a meal and gather round the table with family. But since Luigi’s departure not one of the Catholic congregation has ventured forth. Padre Mauricio is fuming. Behind his anger is a snarling animal fearful for its survival. What will he tell the Archbishop? What about the collection money? How about his sermons piling up undelivered? He’s been door to door, sweating in the summer heat, his hatless dome burning.

  ‘Why were you not in church last Sunday?’

  ‘Mi hija está muy enferma, Padre. I have to take care of her.’

  ‘I was away in Moa. My work takes me there every weekend.’

  ‘Me lastimé la pierna. The doctor says I mustn’t walk until it’s better.’

  The excuses are endless. No-one has actually said the word, but Padre Mauricio knows he is dealing with una huelga — a silent passive strike at the heart of Nuestra Señora de la Asunción. His congregation is protesting against the expulsion of their beloved Luigi, and there isn’t a damn thing he can do about it short of recalling the banished Italianito!

  Last year Aurelia travelled all the way from Baracoa to La Cuchilla to witness the baptism of her great-niece. A swollen stream bubbled through the village and children had been playing there, splashing each other and laughing as a dog barked from the other side of the stream and plunged in, almost drowning in his effort to reach the children. Aurelia watched a litter of piglets rooting in the bushes, unburdened as yet by their fleshy destiny. She had just joined the women gathered around the new mother and her baby daughter when Padre Luigi arrived and began distributing clothing and food to the campesinos.

  ‘We will have a distribution of shoes,’ he’d said, ‘as soon as they arrive from La Habana, and there will be water tanks installed in each hamlet, to catch rain water for you to siphon into your jugs — fresh clean drinking water.’

  The children had tried on their new T-shirts — SEREMOS COMO EL CHE, emblazoned on this latest consignment, with a dark outline of the Argentinian hero against a pale blue sky.

  When the padrino and madrina had arrived in an ox-drawn cart, rumbling down the muddy road, everyone gathered in a circle and began to sing. As Aurelia watched Padre Luigi standing under a burgeoning mango tree dressed in his white cassock, arms spread, singing lustily, she’d felt a swell of emotion. She couldn’t get out of her mind that image of Christ in the desert, feeding the multitude with only five barley loaves and two small fish, and she had for the first time been inspired to ponder the metaphoric nature of the Bible.

  When the hymn was over someone had brought a small dish of water, and Luigi had dipped his thumb and tenderly pressed it to the forehead of the sleeping infant, making the sign of the cross while the madrina and padrino made their vows as godparents to watch over the child and guide her.

  Luigi’s discourse had focused on the coming celebration of the 500th anniversary, and specifically on the Cruz de la Parra and the symbolism of that crucifix which had endured since the days of Cristóbal Colón. Aurelia wondered how this Italian had grown to be more Cuban than the Cubans. From where did his passion come, and why did it affect her so?

  Padre Mauricio disembarks at the Guantánamo terminal, pushes his way through the slow crowd, and hails a taxi. He has been preoccupied throughout the three-hour journey with the knotty problem of his congregation and their ill-founded political action. This silent rebellion has come as a surprise from a people whose religious freedom was suspended for so many years. Only in ’92 had Fidel dropped the government’s atheist stance and begun to release religious believers from labour camps. Ah, and then had come the unforgettable visit of His Holiness in January ’98 — ‘Inolvidable,’ Mauricio sighs as he remembers that joyous revival of Catholicism. Politics has no place in the spiritual life, he tells himself, beginning to formulate in his mind a sermon on the topic. As the shepherd of his flock Mauricio feels responsible for their spiritual welfare, and this weighs heavily on him as his taxi speeds towards the Archbishop’s residence.

  Once admitted to the marble-columned edifice he is kept waiting an uncomfortable length of time, but he swallows the anger that rises in his gorge, along with the rumbling hunger in his gut. He crosses and re-crosses his aching legs. His calves are knotted with varicose veins — all these years of standing at the altar of the Lord. Finally the secretary ushers him into the presence of the Archbishop, who is resting after his lunch and greets Mauricio with a gracious smile and gestures for him to sit.

  Mauricio hands over his written report which may never be read judging by the dismissive gesture with which it is received. But the Archbishop does seem genuinely concerned. He raises a soft-voiced inquiry into the question of the collection money. The Baracoan congregation has never caused concern in the past. What seems to be the problem? When the padre voices his suspicions about la huelga the Archbishop smiles and waves his ringed hand as though swatting a fly, but a frown creases his brow at the suggestion of reinstating Padre Luigi. ‘Impossible,’ he says gently. ‘We must move forward with confidence in the new order.’ He will speak with the officials of Poder Popular Baracoa, the Municipal Government body. Mauricio is urged to return immediately to Baracoa and await further instructions.

  There is no bus till tomorrow. He has to travel in a cattle truck, crammed in with a bunch of campesinos, standing all the way. His varicose veins plague him. Everyone remembers the panic last year when the authorities issued a tsunami warning; and even though the tsunami had not manifested as the gigantic wave they had run from in fear, the citizens of Baracoa had suffered it emotionally as though it had really happened. While everyone fled to high ground with babes in arms and small dogs clasped to their breast, Luigi had run back and forth, helping the elderly and infirm onto the street and up to the safety of El Castillo, or to the neighbourhood of El Paraíso which also stood on high ground — numerous trips, mindless of his own safety. Aurelia had seen him coming and going from her perch on the wall of El Castillo, and she had wanted to join him, but was afraid for her life and had felt cowardly and ashamed when the all-clear sounded and the people were instructed to return to their homes. The dignitaries of Poder Popular had run for safety too without a thought for the people they served — the hospital and hotel staff likewise, and the padres and pastors of the various churches. Aurelia was not alone. But she had resolved to be more like Padre Luigi, though this seemed arrogant and somewhat disrespectful of his person, but it was in truth her heart’s desire.

  The Archbishop of Guantánamo meets with the officials of Poder Popular to discuss the difficult question of his Baracoan congregation. When he shows them Padre Mauricio’s report they break into a cacophony of protest.

  ‘Una huelga? Ridículo! Never heard of such a thing. Especially not in Baracoa.’

  ‘La Habana is a different matter. Those Habaneros can be rebellious. But Baracoa . . . ?’

  ‘You must go there, Seigneur, and speak to them.’

  After the Archbishop has persuaded them of the unlikelihood of his congregation gathering to listen to him — this indeed being the crux of the matter — he presents his plan to the esteemed compañeros.

  And so it is that a group of specialists travel undercover from Guantánamo to Baracoa carrying tourist backpacks filled with electronic equipment. They move furtively from house to house, guided by Padre Mauricio who has compiled a list of the more suspect members of his congregation. They work next door to the Catholic families, but where possible in their very houses, where they install hidden microphones and recording equipment linked to a central offi
ce in Poder Popular which has no choice but to cooperate with the Archdiocese of Guantánamo. Once the equipment is in place Mauricio retires to the Casa Paroquial. It is no longer in his hands. He begins to wash himself assiduously until his skin begins to dry out, cracking and flaking uncomfortably.

  On a stifling August Monday the people of Baracoa had gathered at the Plaza de la Revolución in La Punta overlooking La Bahia where a port thrived until the fall of the USSR twenty years earlier. Aurelia was jostled by the crowd, but she held her ground in fervent anticipation of the Mass which was to follow the speeches made by the mayor and by other prominent members of local government; by the Historian of Baracoa freshly returned from a trip to Spain where he has solicited funds for yet another of his many projects, by the first secretary of the Communist Party, by the director of the Casa de Cultura, and so on, until finally — oh finally, Aurelia’s shoulders rose as she clasped her hands together — Padre Luigi with his quick step was crossing the Plaza in a fresh white cassock, something held tightly in his hand. Perhaps his speech, she thought, but no, when Luigi mounted the dais he quickly unfurled the white scarf he had held, and bound his own mouth with it. There he stood, gagged, and suddenly everyone understood — the Archbishop had forbidden him to speak. He performed the Mass like that, his tortured brown eyes expressing all his feelings as each member of the congregation stood before him to take the host on their tongue, sharing with Luigi and with each other the clamour of a profound and eloquent silence.

  Luigi had spoken out about the plight of Baracoa, about the irony of the city being lauded for its history yet receiving little more than a coat of paint in prominent places to impress the visiting dignitaries on the day of the anniversary. He had spoken out against the poverty that afflicted Baracoa and its surrounding countryside because the provincial government in Guantánamo took the lion’s share and tossed only the leftovers at Baracoa. Luigi had spoken out in appreciation of his congregation, which had swelled dramatically during his five years in office. He had become dangerous and so he had received, by special courier, from the Archbishop’s office in Guantánamo, official notice of his expulsion. The cost of the courier service alone would have provided food for an entire family for a week.